


Stay Paw-sitive

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Awkward Flirting, Cat Cafés, Cat Cuddles, Cats, Coffee Shops, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Valentine's Day, Writer Qrow, barista Clover, compliments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22724203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: There are people destined to find one another, in any timeline, in any universe. There are people connected seemingly from birth, as if an invisible fishing line entangles both their souls, like the sun and the moon, the candle and its shadow.At least, for young, naive romance writers and hapless fanfic authors. Not for Qrow.In which Qrow Branwen, disgruntled semi-struggling novelist, stumbles into a cat café and meets a certain barista who manages to spill his milk and his secrets all over him.Written for Valentine's day, of sorts.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Stay Paw-sitive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etoile_Filante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etoile_Filante/gifts).



> Etoile_Filante’s super cute Valentine’s special convinced me to finally finish this for Valentine’s day. So here you go, a coffee shop AU, except that it’s a cat café, of course it’s a cat café. It doesn’t have that much to do with Valentine’s day, except a passing reference, but what do you want, I’m a rebel like that. This is way out of my comfort zone (the rest of my stuff is literally all fight scenes and dramatic situations), hope you enjoy :)

There are people destined to find one another, in any timeline, in any universe. There are people connected seemingly from birth, as if an invisible fishing line entangles both their souls, like the sun and the moon, the candle and its shadow. And when they eventually meet their destined other half, everything suddenly seems to fall into place, as if gravity finally settled, and the rest is history. 

At least, for young, naive romance writers and hapless fanfic authors. Not for Qrow. 

He’s an experienced, seasoned storyteller after all. He would never rehash the old clichés through his novels, or tread through tedious tropes as if through muddied puddles soiled by so many feet before his. Just his luck though, sappy conventional stories with happy endings seem to be just what his editor must have been looking for, what mindless crowds of readers must be drooling over these days. Hence the editor’s rejection email on his manuscript that had just buzzed inside his smartphone, buried deep in the darkness of his pocket. Just his luck, really. 

Qrow’s been rejected so many times in his life, like a lone bird expelled from the flock, forced to face the tempest alone. He’s been rejected likely as many times as published, come to think of it. Every time, though, it still stings. He’s not sad, not even angry, just frustrated, frustrated as his luck, and he can’t sleep. He can’t sleep, hence why he’s roaming aimlessly at this time throughout the chill deserted streets, orange city lights dimly polluting foggy nighttime. He needs a drink, that goes without saying. And, that goes without saying, everything’s closed at this time. He needs a drink, and just his luck really, everything’s closed, except for one shop whose logo glimmers weakly through the thick lush branches of a tree on the sidewalk. 

He only takes his hand out of his pocket to push the door open, before dragging it back to the lonely darkness of his pocket where it belongs. 

The slightest semblance of warmth welcomes him inside, alongside the distinct smell of dishwashing liquids. It’s plainly obvious the place is about to close and the poor waiter is just cleaning up. He contemplates leaving without a word, but his hand suddenly finds his long-lost phone still tucked in his pocket, and he draws the device to idly check through his notifications, find some other fix than alcohol to numb his mind, grateful for the relative heat inside. 

“Oh, we’re still serving,” the barista greets him amicably, a tall pile of plates hiding his face from the writer’s eyes. “Good evening, sir.”

At the back of his mind, Qrow wonders who ‘we’ might be, and what kind of bartender would be insufferable enough to employ the royal we. Especially since no one else would be working in an empty shop in an empty town on a night shift. He grabs a dainty little green and white menu from the just-cleaned counter and orders the first thing on the list, without peeling his eyes off his phone.

Social media is a harsh mistress, it turns out, and seeing all the successes of his online friends - their brand new houses, expensive travels, and expanding families - only adds salt to his wounded semi-struggling writer’s heart. Sighing as he slumps inelegantly into a tall metal chair before the counter, he distractedly traces the sinewy lines of the solid wood surface. In addition to the smell of freshly flower-scented cleaning products, smelling too clean to his liking, he picks up a distinct odour, something strangely familiar, strangely homely, almost comforting. In the shadows, something seems to scurry, and he prays for it not to be a mouse, not just as his impressions about the place were turning ever so slightly positive. 

“Milk?” a voice as smooth and creamy as the mentioned liquid prompts.

A cup of coffee is deposited before him, as black as his soul, he’d probably snarkily have thought, but he barely notices at all. For as his eyes lift to meet the milk-bearer’s - he forgets how to breathe. The cute silver pitcher containing the milk rests adorably out of place in the man’s large hand, at the end of possibly the most sculptural arm he’s seen his life, expanses of flawless alabaster skin spreading up until his white sleeve neatly rolled up all the way to where the angle of his shoulder ends and the gentle yet powerful curve of his bicep begins. Qrow can’t help his practised mind from waxing lyrical like a teenage fanfic writer, erupting in purple prose as his eyes travel up the man’s impossibly tight apron embroidered with some lame pun, up the graceful arch of his neck to meet teal eyes - teal eyes as clear as summer lakes on cloudless days where willows come to weep...

All Qrow has time to see is a flash of panic in the mesmerising aqua irises, before scalding hot full-fat milk is spilled onto the front of his shirt. Obviously, the man tripped on something, and would have fallen straight into Qrow’s arms weren’t it for the counter standing between them - just Qrow’s luck again, for he wouldn’t have minded catching such a dashing man. 

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” the barista speaks quickly, already seizing his apron with uncharacteristic elegance to wipe off the milk on Qrow’s clothes. “Would you like another drink on the house? Or another shirt? I have my casual clothes with me at the back, nothing that could really fit you, but I’m sure the colour would look good on you.”

The writer doesn’t answer yet, for the touch of the man’s fingers through the thin, stiff fabric of the apron and his shirt is… distracting to say the least. Strong digits move with surprising delicacy, only rubbing vigorously where precisely needed. As Qrow lets himself enjoy the not unwelcome ministrations, too bashful to look up at the smiling teal eyes again, he spots a russet shadow pouncing with agility from where the barista tripped behind the counter. The creature lands elastically against the wooden surface with a loud meow before dangling off Qrow's arm as if never letting go. 

“She must like the milk,” the barman suggests, shrugging as the writer’s hands move in to caress the satin-smooth rust-tinted fur, quickly eliciting purrs from the feline that starts contorting on his knees, bending along improbable angles to grant him better access to its soft belly. 

“Nah, cats don’t really care that much about milk,” the raven-haired man grunts distractedly. “Cartoons just convinced people otherwise.”

“So maybe she likes you,” the barman suggests, tentatively reaching out a hand that the cat’s paw bashes away tauntingly. “Wouldn’t be hard to imagine why.”

“Really, don’t give cats cow milk. Most cats are lactose intolerant, so that does more harm than good.”

“And deflecting compliments like that does humans more harm than good,” the teasing words come out gently, without defiance.

Qrow can only stare in awe as the man picks up his cup and artfully pours the rest of the milk inside in elegant arabesques to produce the shape of a heart with practised ease as if he’d been rehearsing every day for Valentine’s day. He doesn’t actually usually like milk in his coffee, but it’s now too late to complain, and he shouldn’t complain when someone does something nice for him, just this once. The purring vibration of the cat - Ruby, he reads on an appropriately cute tag on her collar - thrums delightfully against his lower abdomen, soon drawing in another cat, slender and white as snow. An expression of regal disdain in her narrowed icy blue eyes, the newcomer she-cat tentatively rubs her face against his leg, a judgemental air never leaving her cerulean gaze. 

“Wow, Weiss likes you too… you’re really good with cats,” the apron-wearer comments, running an awkward hand through his short brown hair. “You must really like them.”

“And... you don’t?” Qrow wonders as he takes a sip of his coffee, and mentally adds, without any possible bias related to stunning men or cute cats, milk coffee to his list of favourite things.

He immediately regrets what he just said, berating himself hundredfold for being so mean to someone just trying to be nice. Real smooth, Qrow. But Clover, since that’s what he goes by judging by his pristine clean name tag, doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“I’m more of a dog person, you can see I’m pretty awkward with animals that move silently around my feet. But cats are nice after you get to know them.”

“My… best friend has a dog,” Qrow recalls while petting each cat in one hand, which essentially amounts to heaven on Earth. “Always smiling, with his tongue hanging out. A black and white corgi. So long.”

“And so short,” Clover finishes with an earnest smile. 

“Dogs are simpler. Cats are more mysterious, more layered.”

“Like onions?”

“Like characters.”

Characters, with their flaws, their quirks… his author’s mind, ceaselessly hunting for inspiration, is quick to identify those defects in the people he meets, these cracks that let the light shine through. But Clover just seems to be giving and giving, too perfectly, nothing but gentleness and positivity, radiating the light instead of letting it filter through, no matter what darkness his core may conceal. That wouldn’t make for a good character inspiration, but at least that makes for a good person, and that’s more than Qrow can ask for right now.

“You’re a writer?”

“Of sorts.”

That was usually the time where people told them they were writers too, or had writer friends, even though they’d never written anything more than online fanfiction discontinued after chapter five. The author braces himself for that deeply unoriginal, frankly annoying topic.

“You… don’t seem to want to talk about it.”

“Not tonight,” Qrow can only be grateful for his interlocutor’s perceptiveness. “But why are you working in a cat café, if you prefer dogs?”

“Gotta pay bills while finishing my medical studies and supporting my husband’s kids.”

“Your… uh...”

He’s not sure what to say, it’s a lot to take in at once, and he’s impressed Clover just says it in the most natural, unashamed way. How valiant, how vulnerable all at once those simple words could be. And how inconsiderate, how disrespectful, for lack of better polite terms, for that wonderful man’s husband to have him support the children alone. 

“James died in a plane crash two years ago,” Clover clarifies precipitantly. “He was in the military. He left four kids behind from a previous marriage, they’re all teenagers now, almost grown up. They’re great, I can’t complain at all.”

“Oh,” the writer only mouths, at a loss for words as more cats gather around him, a golden-eyed jet black Tonkinese never leaving the side of a larger tabby whose boisterous purr echoes as loudly as a bike’s motor. 

“Sorry if I’m bothering you with my personal life,” Clover amends, “you probably...”

“No, it’s fine. It must be hard to find someone to talk to, sometimes. Tell me more about you.”

“I was a nurse on the front before, my husband helped me get that job for the army. But now I’m going back to school to become a doctor. A surgeon, if I’m lucky.”

Makes sense, given the utter precision at which his hands move, along Qrow’s shirt or while pouring milk. Clover must know his way around the human anatomy, that should come in handy in bed, the writer’s mind unhelpfully supplies as he dismisses the intrusive thought.

“You look determined, I’m sure you’re gonna go far.”

“How would you know?”

“Been told I’m a good judge of character. It’s part of my day job, after all.”

“You’re gonna base a character off me?”

“Maybe,” he smiles wryly, marveling at the light blooming in Clover’s eyes at that.

“What’s your day job? Are you a teacher?”

“Lucky guess, Cloves. I lecture literature in university. I can usually tell when a student has potential, when they’ve got what it takes to succeed.”

“And you like it? Teaching, I mean.”

“Helps pay bills when you’re a struggling writer. But lecture theaters are a bit too crowded at times.”

“You seem to enjoy alone time… are you sure you don’t want me to...” Clover takes a small step back, hesitantly, picking up the first cup he finds before him and starts wiping it mechanically.

“I told you I wanted you to tell me more about you,” Qrow reiterates, looking at the taller man through careful eyelashes. 

And Clover does so. He tells him about random subjects, Harriet’s marathons, Marrow’s vet internship, the cat café’s logo, the weather, fishing with this father, the way sun reflects off the dew-littered grass in his childhood garden, his favourite foods, running with James on the seashore in the morning along the line where the sand met the silvery foam, his favourite films, his utter disdain for airplane meals, the first trout he caught, the beauty of the summer star sky after he ran away from home the night he came out to his parents, his three favourite ice cream flavours and how adding salt on chocolate ice cream made the world an infinitely better place, the books that changed his life, his mother’s smile, James’s dog Beowulf, the moonlight on the lake when they came home from fishing.

At no point does Qrow tell him that he writes sad stories. At no point does he dare interrupt, or pause to take out his black leather-bound notebook in which he plans his plotlines to take notes. Some of the stories are sad enough for him to write about, and some have silver linings, it’s not tonally coherent enough to construct a novel around, because that’s how life goes. But Clover goes on, a weight visibly lifted off his chiselled shoulders as he can finally speak to someone, release the emotions that had stayed hidden so long. The emotions that had remained silent for so many years, trapped behind a surgical mask, locked inside a closet, imprisoned like a murder of crows in a gilded cage, behind a façade of professional pleasantness. They laugh, both of them, at whatever meagre silver linings they find, and it’s enough for them, right here, right now. And when they stop laughing, and Clover’s smile fails to leave his eyes, an expression of gratitude is plainly painted over his fascinating features.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Qrow murmurs, too focused on the barista’s face to think of something more original.

“Red,” Clover answers without missing a beat. 

“Really?” the author’s crimson eyes trace up and down his work attire in attempt to track the elusive shade. 

“You should see my casual clothes, as I said I’m sure the red patterns on my jumper would look great with your eyes.”

Conveniently, a similar crimson shade creeps up to Qrow’s cheeks at the compliment.

“Is that a serious offer? Be careful what you wish for.”

Clover’s too absorbed in prying Blake, the darkest feline, off his client’s finished cup she’s carefully licking. He finally manages to take her into his arms where she sits comfortably, her tail lazily lashing from side to side between content meows. Qrow’s fingers delicately rub the hair on Weiss’s forehead, as majestic as a monarch’s crown, with feather-light touches, leaving her yearning for more as she leans into the palm of his hand. Qrow yearns for more, too, and he’s not stupid, nor was he born yesterday. He knows he’s falling in love, he knows the familiar warm tingles he hasn’t felt since his younger and more vulnerable years, fluttering up his gut like an unkindness of miniature ravens. He knows he’s in love, and he’s too tired to flirt and be flirted with, too disgruntled to dance around his feelings, to toy around them like a rebellious teenager. He’s too wary of games at his age, he doesn’t have that much time or energy left to fool around, adult life being sufficiently busy as is. He just wishes to be direct, just as Clover has been to him the whole storytime. 

“When does your shift end?”

The medical student draws his phone to check the time before answering. 

“Five minutes ago.”

Qrow stares into the beautiful blue-green eyes, his gaze an unspoken question, a burning query. 

“I should get back to the kids,” Clover mumbles nervously. “I need to make sure that Elm hasn’t burnt down the kitchen yet, and that Vine gets enough sleep since he has to wake up early for yoga tomorrow.”

Qrow knows it’s a dirty trick, but he’s tired of waiting, so he grabs the smartphone out of the barista’s hands, his fingers as deft as a pickpocket’s, and enters his number in the phonebook. Even Blake hisses disapprovingly from Clover’s lap, puffing out the lighter fur from her chest, and all he can do shoot the adorable furball his most apologetic look. 

“Are you also a stage magician, on top of a professor and an writer? Because that was some really quick trick there.”

“You can delete my number if you want,” Qrow shrugs, returning the phone while preventing Yang, the tabby, from chewing on a loose thread off his coat, likely also in protest at his lowly move. 

“Now what did I say about deflecting compliments?”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” the professor shoots back breathlessly, without thinking.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

The author ponders for several seconds at the abrupt question. 

“I don’t have a favourite colour… Maybe green, but all my best friends think that’s lame. They live in a wood cabin bordering a forest, so they find green pretty boring. My sister does too, but she disapproves of everything, so that may be why.”

“Green? I don’t believe you.”

“I like green, like the moss and ivy that covers ancient abandoned buildings, remnants of forgotten times, of forgotten stories.”

“Your name’s Qrow with a Q?” Clover reacts, going through his most recent contacts. “Your sister’s must be Rhayvehn with a y and two silent h’s?”

“Very funny, but no, I was the unlucky one. Hers is spelled normally.”

“Oh. Well… I should really leave. Thanks for everything, Qrow.”

“Wait, I should tip you first.”

“Right, I should do  _ this  _ first -”

To demonstrate, he leans over, avoiding the cats huddling at their feet, and plants a kiss onto Qrow’s lips. It’s a brief kiss, too brief, almost too chaste, before the author grabs him by the waist and joins their lips together again. Qrow knows he tastes like milk coffee, but Clover tastes like mint tea, like aromatic herbs by the windowsill at sunrise, like youth and silver linings. As they part, Clover can’t help but wonder if he dreamt that sliver of agile tongue, playfully exploring the contour of his lips, caressing his Cupid’s bow like a hopeful promise. 

“Right, I’ll message you,” the barista assures with a wink before turning to the kitchens, regretfully leaving the four cats that were practically melting into puddles of purrs in the heated space between the two men. “If you’re lucky, that is.”

There are people destined to find one another, connected seemingly from birth, as if an invisible fishing line entangles both their souls. And the misfortunes of life may try to separate them, like grim reapers swinging great scythes at their frail bonds. But they know that in some universe, in some storyline they’ll find one another, and they’ll figure it out somehow, as long as they stay positive. 

**Author's Note:**

> Literally just finished during the last hours of Valentine’s day in my time zone, so sorry for any typos due to lightning fast proofreading. I had no idea where I was going with this at first, so that was a fun experiment. Let me know what you think in the comments! As it turns out I’m not a cat person, I’m more of a dog person (she said, cuddling a cat and a dog on either side of the couch on her own on Valentine’s day, clearly having the time of her life) who likes cats too.  
> Thinking of writing a series of short, harmless AU’s like this one (and unlike REAPER IV which is neither short nor harmless, but if you like intense cyberpunk sci-fi and fair game you should check it out wink wink). What do you think? Thoughts/suggestions welcome in the comments xx


End file.
